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Judge Me.

My mind was racing was racing. My palms were clammy with nervousness and anxiety. The bailiff eyed me, making my thoughts even more scattered. I had to collect myself. My case made it into the court docket and I couldn’t waste this chance. I couldn’t spend my life feeling jaded over wasted time. My mind jumped to a sunny summer day. The day I got my subpoena in the mail. I remember trying to get away, changing my name, dying my hair, all to no avail. The officers pounded on my door, parading their search warrant in my face. I felt so small. I knew it was over. The jig was up. They found their treasure and took me away. They next day I met with public defender. He sickened me with his nice suit, hundred dollar haircut, and expensive alligator shoes. He didn’t care about me. I was just another name in the system, another defendant introduced guilty. He told me the prosecutor was good. Real good. He told me that they had all the evidence, all the witnesses, and most importantly all the support. He wanted me to compromise with a plea bargain, but there was no way I would take that route. I would not talk. I would not comply. And I would not plead guilty. Now here I am with the Grand Jury of my peers before me. How are they “Grand?” To me they were anything but. I was guilty in their eyes from the moment I walked in. To them the shackles were mine and well deserved. By this time you be wondering who I am. Me? Little old me? I’m just a sixteen year old…on trial for murder.





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